Once and Always
by GrlNamedLucifer
Summary: Susan wouldn't have been left alone if it weren't for Lucy and her bloody Lions.


**Title:** Once and Always  
**Author:** Schala (Schala4atgmaildotcom)  
**Fandom:** Chronicles of Narnia  
**Rating:** PG, if that  
**Warnings:** SPOILERS for The Last Battle  
**Pairing:** Susan/OMC, Susan-centric  
**Archive:** If for some reason you want this, just ask.  
**Disclaimer:** Lewis told us to go out and write our own stories, but I am not C.S. Lewis, nor am I part of Disney, Walden Media, or C.S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. and therefore do not own Narnia. This is just for fun.  
**Summary:** Susan wouldn't have been left alone if it weren't for Lucy and her bloody Lions.  
**Notes:** This came about after attempting to explain why I don't mind the end that much in the grand scheme of things, and how I thought Lewis had a purpose behind it. Hopefully this makes sense to others and not just me… Unbeta-ed. Comments and concrit appreciated.

"_God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."_  
-The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis

It was one of the most horrific accidents England had ever seen. Two trains full of people, to say nothing of those that had been on the platform. It had taken nearly a week to find them all, and most were burned or crushed beyond recognition. In the end, Susan had only been able to identify her mother and father by their wedding rings, Lucy by the cross necklace that Peter had given her the year before.

At twenty-one years old, Susan had been the one to make the funeral arrangements for her mother and father and sister and brothers and cousin and her cousin's best friend and the Professor and the Professor's friend. Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold had wanted to make separate arrangements for Eustace - as did the Poles with their daughter- but Susan adamantly refused. She would not have them separated, not now. They eventually gave in, but insisted they'd help. Help that Susan again refused. She was the one left behind. This was her duty.

Her punishment.

Aunts and Uncles and relatives she'd never heard of had offered to let her stay with them. "Until you get back on your feet," they'd say. Until she woke up and realized she had to take care of herself now, she heard. She politely declined each offer, saying that she'd rather stay in her parents' home. It made her feel close to the others, now that they were gone.

All lies, of course. The others never left her, no matter where she went.

She saw their ghosts in every shadow, heard their voices in every sound. The Pole girl and the Professor's friend had come just the once and never returned, as if even in death they were ashamed of her. Eustace blamed her, asked her why she hadn't saved him from her siblings, why she had done nothing to stop him from changing into the foolish boy he'd become. Mother and Father said nothing to her, their mere presence making her feel guilty for not protecting the others while the two of them had been gone, for letting them fall into that delusion. The Professor tried to reason with her, tried to use that faulty logic of his to convince her that she'd been wrong. Edmund blamed himself half the time, and berated her the other half for being so stupid. Peter simply looked at her as if he had no idea who she was, and Susan couldn't stand it and prayed and prayed each night that he'd leave and sobbed the entire day he finally did.

And then there was only Lucy left.

Lucy, who never left her, unlike all the others. Lucy, who looked at her like she pitied her, like she understood her, like she didn't blame her. Lucy, who looked as if she knew some wonderful secret that she simply **had** to tell her big sister, if only Susan would listen to her. Lucy, who stood with her hand outstretched, as if waiting for Susan to simply reach out and take it and be with them again.

Susan bore the others in silence, but not Lucy. Susan would scream at her, blaming her for all of this. If she hadn't made everyone play her stupid game, if she hadn't tricked the Professor and the others into believing it, if she hadn't made them follow her foolish quest, if she hadn't, if she hadn't, if she hadn't… Everyone would still be alive if it weren't for Lucy and her delusions.

Susan wouldn't have been left alone if it weren't for Lucy and her bloody Lions.

At twenty-seven, Susan wasn't as alone anymore. She'd met an American boy who thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, who didn't mind that she was a Pevensie and therefore odd, who treated her like a Queen. He didn't question that his wife talked to the ghost of her little sister. And, when his wife was so determined to find something she couldn't explain to him, could barely explain to herself, he'd merely offered his help.

Soon there was love and life again, in the form of another two little girls. One, the older, had dark hair like her mother, while the younger had blonde hair like her father. Susan had named the older daughter Helen, after her own mother, and Helen was as beautiful as Susan had ever been, perhaps more so. She'd named the younger daughter Lucy, after the sister who haunted her still, and Lucy was pretty, in her own way. When she had first thought that about her daughter, Susan had finally understood that Mother had never meant it as an insult or out of pity when she said it about her sister, as Susan had known Lucy had thought it was. She said it because it was true. Men would never fight a war over Lucy, either her sister or her daughter, nor would they write poems or sing songs of her beauty. But there was something about Lucy, both her sister and her daughter, that made her beautiful in a way that most people weren't.

In a way Susan wasn't.

Every night, Susan would read to her daughters. She'd read them stories of fairies and dragons and knights and princesses and all other things that little girls adored. Every night, her sister's ghost would sit and listen to the stories as well. But every once in a while, Lucy, her sister, would smile as Lucy, her daughter, would ask for a real story, a true one that really happened. And Susan, knowing what her sister, her daughter, really wanted, would tell instead the story of the wardrobe and lamppost and the witch and the kings and queens. And when she was finished, Lucy, both of them, would be satisfied, as Helen would roll her eyes and say that nothing like that ever **really** happened.

It used to be so easy for Susan to pretend that she was right.

One day, however, her little Helen ran up to her saying that Lucy had been telling lies. Lucy had been making things up. Lucy had gone mad. Lucy had said she'd seen a Lion. And whatever else Lucy had done, Susan hadn't heard, because she had run out to where she knew her girls had been playing. There she found Lucy, her arms hugging her knees to her chest as she cried over the fact that her sister wouldn't believe her, and Susan wrapped her own arms around her and told her that everything was alright.

And then Lucy nearly broke her mother's heart.

Lucy looked up at her with pleading eyes, such familiar eyes, eyes that forgave her and begged her to believe her. And then Lucy held out her hand to her mother, looking so much like the ghost of her namesake that Susan wanted to run, to cry, to scream. But instead, Susan took her daughter's hand and let her lead her to her Lion.

Susan didn't see him, couldn't see him, but she **knew** he was there. For the first time in nearly two decades, Susan could **feel** him again, could smell the scent of spring and warmth that came from him, could see the ghost of her sister smiling as she rested her head against something, someone, that Susan couldn't see.

And Susan suddenly knew that she'd been forgiven. She had never been abandoned, never truly been alone. She hadn't failed. Because she had had a daughter who believed in Lions. Who could teach her mother to believe in them again. And when her daughter laughed at something she couldn't hear and put a crown of daisies on her mother's head, Susan knew that she was a Queen again.

For once and for always.

_I can finally see it  
Now I have to believe  
All those precious stories  
All the world is made of  
Faith and trust and pixie dust_  
- Jonatha Brooke, "I'll Try"


End file.
